The aforementioned Brad after reading my blog has not caved into restarting his blog, but he HAS said that if I get fifteen people to comment that they want him to send me flowers, he will. He says fifty, and he will deliver them.So really, it isn't flower whoring, I am EARNING them. Though, flowers from Brad could be scary since he was the one that said sending flowers was a very romantic gesture. I thought people sent them to be nice, and well, nice? End of story?

Comment people! For once. Just like "we" swayed the election, use your blogging power here. I didn't get the iPod, nor do I advertise hair plug treatments to keep my blog running.


Just comment and help me prove a point.


People far and wide, comment. I don't care WHO YOU ARE. Just comment. If your from Blog Explosion, you don't have anything better to do in that thirty seconds. DO IT!

I finially found the job I need.


All those phone calls paid off.

The Nephew, Unrealistically Skinny Woman, Beauty Queen and I are all going to do the whole Auntie/Nephew/Mother bonding experience this weekend. Ice skating and animated feature length films in upstate Delaware.

Let the fun begin. Stay posted for updates, since The Nephew enjoys being as embarassing as possible. Except, his mother will be there, so he might, for a brief and shining moment, consider behaving.


One can wish, can't they?

Two searches that brought visitors to my blog:

Am I cut out to be a nurse?

Mature woman cleavage pictures



There are not words to properly discribe my horror.

The family gathering was, as all our family gatherings are, loud, food-filled and long. The conversation over much of dinner was regarding my blog, according to other reports this is a trend not limited to my relatives. But that, in and of itself is quite another story.

I did, for the FIRST time in my life, hear my grandmother swear. I almost choked on a jelloed cherry when she was telling me how she thought the book The Bush Dynasty was FULL OF SHIT regarding Barbara Bush. Actually, she lowered her voice in a genteel manner. Obviously, I didn't inherit that little lady-like trait from her.

My brother thinks my blog is "Emotional crap and rubbish, with lots of drawn-out drama. A social engineering genius, but besides that, a load of shit." Apparently, most people don't understand the whole satire element I desire to weave into my bloq, prehaps I need to work on my writing skills.

My grandfather was continually and loudly telling me how they are refurbishing their upstairs as Old Maid Quarters IN CASE I WAS INTERESTED. Yes, that was JUST IN CASE I WAS INTERESTED.


So, I shall go and contemplate how many ways their are to spend New Year's as a old maid.

We are doing our family holiday gathering tonight. These are generally fun times, lots of food, very loud people and we manage to have fun and stay sober. (That's what happens when you are formerly Amish.)

Problem Being: Granny has gotten a bit older, so she finds it amusing to make each family sector come up with a production, which was cute when we were, say, eight. Now that the youngest is sixteen, what exactly are we supposed to do? I will forgo detailing embarassing family productions we have done in the past, with the exception of singing "The Twelve Days of A Redneck Christmas" we DESERVE to be embarassed and ridiculed over that, I don't know WHOSE idea that was. Anyway. Our options were rather limited so, we have resigned ourselves to humming Rudolph the Rednose Reindeer with kazoos.


Believe it or not, we are all adults.

I am trying to think of something interesting and witty to write, something that happened to me in the wee morning hours. But, the only thing I am sure of at this present moment is that I have a headache, no decent coffee to sate it and heaps of office drama swirling about my ears. Oh. And I am eating a cheese biscuit for breakfast. I am so healthy.

I don't believe my brain was made to function, much less work, before twelve. This leaves my employment options open to... caberet singer? Except I can't sing. Nice thought, that. Besides caberet singing is just downright annoying.

SPEAKING OF ANNOYING. People who get too much sleep should be shot. Joy for one. I get up this morning, she already has her huge velcro curlers on her head and is chirping about the room like a cricket. I HATE CRICKETS. I squash them. When Joy gets hyper, she repeats everything she says three times like the goose on Charlotte's Web. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful morning. It was not a good, good, good thing when Laura began feeding her annoying cheerful things to say.


I think she needs to find a new cartoon to love.

You know those disgusting giant chocolate Christmas cards companies send? WHAT IS THE FREAKING POINT? Do people actually EAT them? They actually hold the platter-sized slab of chocolate to their lips, gnaw timidily, only to leave a few tooth marks and a lot of drool?

On on EARTH came up with the idea of such a thing. If people don't leave them in the box to turn to cocoa powder, they leave them in the box to feed the thriving mice. At best, they feed it to their children, fueling their demon souls. I cleverly chopped it up to make cookies, but, I am merely the exception to the rule with my unusual amount of savvy common sense. Or maybe the joke is on me, to watch me carefully carve up two pounds of very solid chocolate with a very dull butcher knife. Why can't it be DARK chocolate? Because you would then have to pry away MY little demon fingers.


And that would be all too much fun. It would be MY little CHOCOLATE fueled soul.

If anyone would like to lovingly gaze at pictures from The Wedding you can look at them here.


Don't we look pretty! I, at least, look like a cranberry taffetta curtain.

Last night, I talked to Brad and he wanted to know, since he had endured a phone conversation of me, would he get mentioned on my blog? (As a ARDENT fan, who only started reading it yesterday, this is quite important to him.) I told him he had to do something paticularly witty, or send me flowers, or SOMETHING. At this reply, he was quite crushed, so, I promised him I would mention him on my blog. So this is me mentioning Brad.

Oh. Brad once tried to start a blog and became quite disheartened. Let us, as a blog family, rally round and spread the warm fuzzies all around and accost Brad with emails demanding that he restart his blog. MAY THE FUZZIES START FLOWING.


Or we could just demand he send me flowers.

This morning, there was this odd, cough-dropish smell floating around the office. I was talking to someone and commented on the smell, rather loudly. Miss Button Police informed me it was her latest candle scent she is trying out. We are her "test market" and she was glaring rather officiously at me in all my Cough Drop Smell Hating Glory.


I remarked that my cold has impared my olfactory glands.

When I make mistakes at work, the only person it effects is this middle aged co-worker who happens to have a pretty bad case of Empty Nest Syndrome and IWG. (I Want Grandkids. This is known to suddenly effect people who STILL have children living at home but seem to need more birdhouses to build. Or maybe they just like collecting Barney tapes.)

Anyway. It all started when I made this one mistake that was going to create a bit, ok, allot more work for her. So, JOKINGLY, I offered to marry her son. The next mistake came with the price of grandchildren and by the time I finished my training, she had a whole filled daycare promised to her. And a lifetime supply of cookies. This was all fine and amusing, since her son was safely thousands of miles away in Oklahoma and he happens to be a good sixteen years older than me.

She has been hinting around that she wants me to date him, she thinks I walk on water, but, today, he came to visit. Which was fine, until she told me, loudly, that she had told him the ENTIRE grandchildren joke. AND SHE SERIOUSLY WANTED ME TO DATE HIM.

Another rather embarassing, even more so, was the fact I tell dating mishap stories to the office to amuse them, and she had relayed them ALL to him. And then asked for updates, while I was turning seventeen shades of crimson, thinking up an explanation why I COULD NOT HAVE CHILDREN, without referencing them to my blog.


And he was cute too, dammit.

Dear Lord. Save me from a fate worse than death.

Today, should have been a vaguely normal sort of day. Ok, so I woke up when I was supposed to be at work. But, after I raced in, I discovered, all the day care worker's in town were either on strike, dead or sick. Personally, I think all those excuses are rather paltry, even death. HOW ON EARTH ARE WE SUPPOSED TO GET ANY WORK DONE?

These children have not only consumed the time and energy of their mother, but insist on terrorizing ME as well. This is sufficient evidence to warrent me never fit for having children. They are not content to run screaming up and down the hallways, or stuffing highlighters in their mouths or even stapling everything to the walls. They come into my office with their beady little rat eyes and demand that I entertain them. I know to do approximentally two things with children. Feed them. And, well, feed them.

In a moment of inspiration I gave them paper and markers telling them to draw me pictures. BIG MISTAKE. After they did a quick redecoration of my office, and their clothes and an attempt at my clothes. I began feeding them, again. But, little children are only so happy so long with stale potatoe chips and coffee residue vapors. GOD FORBID I FEED THEM CAFFEINE AND FUEL THEIR LITTLE DEMON SOULS.

So now, their mothers is juggling spaghetti-o's, applesauce and telling them to count in Spanish. While they lay on their backs, kicking their feet in the air, spitting and throwing the aforemenioned food across the room. Did I mention these children are two and three?

I love children, I really do. But I love the children in Ralph Lauren Catalogs and Pottery Barn stores that build quietly with blocks and say "please" and "thank you" and entertain themselves with their miniture renditions of Romeo and Juliet. (THEY ARE ACCOSTING ME WITH MARKERS, AGAIN. Bloody little buggers.)


Do you think it is too early to get my tubes tied?

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Well, that was my nice sentimental note for the day. Actually, today has been quite the interesting Christmas. Never, in the history of our family, can I remember getting our present opening done SO FAST. I felt downright sacreligious. There was none of the shaking of presents, or the careful peeling of paper and none of the annoying GUESSING HOW MANY PAGES WERE IN THE BOOK business. Let me clarify, this is not me registering a complaint by any means. That meant we got to stuff our little faces that much sooner. And stuff we did!

One of the highlights of present opening would be where my sister opened her much awaited gift from her boyfriend. And, it was, A RING. Not a engagement ring, but a ring nonetheless. She, of course, quietly opened it, slipped it on her finger and continued opening her other presents. (He was not here for the festivities.) I, could not bear to pass up such a opportunity for dramatic action on the part of the family. I heralded loudly across the living room JARED GAVE LAURA A RING FOR CHRISTMAS.

Everyone stopped.

You could hear the tissue paper float quietly to the floor. And then, the erupted. A WHAT? A THING? A PING? A FREAKING RING? Laura was simultaniously dutifully shooting me dirty looks and showing off her new piece of jewelry. She quickly explained, but let me tell you, the looks on the faces of the parents, for that one brief shining moment, was priceless.

Today is one of those lovely days wherin I can gad about the house, cleaning in my pyjamas, listening to my music rather loudly and taking the occasionally frequent nap. These things are quite possible because I have no small children or pets for whom I must do last minute shopping.

The only problem is, the computers here at home, will not allow me to check my email, so it has been NINETEEN HOURS since I have checked my email! This is very disturbing to me. And a lack of email causes me to ponder strange things.

Take this morning for instance, I had to venture out of my rather messy cocoon to return some rental movies. (Which were hugely overdue since our VCR had decided to eat the only video we rented and we had to have a elaborate plan to withdraw it.) As I already mentioned, I was in my pj's, but I neglected to put shoes on since it was just a quick jaunt getting out of the car to the drop off slot. Silly me. I neglected to calculate the fact that there are FIFTY MILLION people out on Christmas Eve, paticularly renting movies. Or somewhere within the vicinity. Thus, forcing me to park a half-mile away and run, in my bare little feet, to drop off the stupid movies.

Upon running this mini-marathon, I passed many a interesting vehicle ready to run over the nearest small child in order to steal their toy. Most of these menacing rolling death-traps were tricked out mini-vans. Can someone please explain to me the point of having a SUPER VAN? It isn't the death trap bit that bothers me, there are plenty of small children to go round. It is the fact that they spend enough for a small house, creating these ludicrous looking machines. As in, I Will Never Be Able To Avoid A Mid-Life Crisis Car Since I Spent So Much On This Van, But I Am Really Cool Deep Down Inside, See My Shiny Rims. I mean, seriously people, these baby buses are in colors and chrome proportions that should only be reserved for contraptions that go over 150 mph, or hold no more than two passengers. WHAT IS THIS WORLD COMING TO? It isn't Soccer Mom anymore, it is Pimp Mom. WHORING SMALL CHILDREN FOR THEIR TOYS.


Hmm. Maybe I should just get back to cleaning and have no more deep thoughts.

Our dinner conversations are always quite colorful and normally quite thought provoking. Last night, our conversation gravitated to that of the torture that has been happening in Baghdad and Guantomino Bay, which, I might add, is not recommended to discuss quite eating.

But, the questions posed were as follows; how can we retain the "moral high ground" if we are doing the very thing we are supposed to be liberating them from? Can we then dismiss the entire cause as wrong and unjust because SOME people are behaving unethically? How can we say support the troops with such a action? How can we let the actions of a few troops errode the support for thousands? Is it fair to say such behavior is inevitable because of the depravity of man?

These thoughts and questions were bounced around, with many answers and opinions, but it caused me to ponder for awhile.


What do you think?

Compound my misery by then polling the whole office as to whether or not they think my voice is annoying. THERE ARE CERTAIN THINGS I WOULD PREFER NOT TO KNOW.


Damn Alvin The Chipmunk.

Inform me that you had told someone shortly before introducing us that "She is a really sweet girl. Get past the annoying voice and you will love her."


I am so hurt.

I think, yesterday's arrival of flowers were the straw the broke the jealous cow's back. Lots of jealous cows. Lots of jealous cows who are waiting to trample me and steal my flowers.

This morning, I walk into work and am delighted to see a small flowering monument which has sprouted on the front desk. There was also a glowering front desk cow eyeing my lillies rather hungrily. (Aren't lillies horridly posionous or something?) I walked to the back to get my coffee only to be greeted with more Flower Whoring Glares. This did not bode well. I tried to strike up a perky conversation, only to be informed it was wrong, nay, immoral, to recieve flowers when you WERE NOT EVEN THERE.

Ah. It all becomes so clear.

So, I retired to my office, allowing my flowers to sit on the front desk so they could have a tiny smidgen of my happiness. When I walked out to give The Cow some paperwork, I heard her telling someone that they were HER flowers from a secret admirer. In the spirit of Christmas, I did not say anything, what the heck, let her have her jollies.


CALL SANTA! THE GRINCH HAS FINALLY CROAKED!

Send me flowers. I know, I know, I have already reiterated that SEVERAL times, but, today, I was all sick and miserable-ish and I recieved GOREGEOUS flowers from someone in Ukraine.

Actually, I have to confess, I haven't seen them yet, since I came home sick, but they did call me here at home to describe in careful detail what they look like. Assuring me, that these, by far, are the best flowers yet.

Only problem being, I was so incredibly happy that I couldn't sleep. So I had to bake cookies. Lots of them.


I am officially feeling the Christmas spirit,

I abosolutely abbhore being sick. I don't know who enjoy's it, but I am sure there is some perverse nay-sayer out there who would disagree with me.

I despise the shallow breathing, the nausea, the watering eyes, the headache, the queasiness and the constant threat of wanting to vomit. All this wihle trying to smile through cracked lips and accomplish some work.


SHOOT ME NOW.

Our office brew brings a whole new level to the concept of BAD COFFEE. Prehaps it is because we work in a building full of emotional females, thus, rendering a need for witch's brew. Or, maybe, they do not understand the concept of SCRUBBING THE POT or MEASURING THE GROUNDS. In any account, this stuff is vile enough to use as paint remover.


The last thing my stomach needed this morning was to have it's cheerful yellow-daisy paint job removed.

For those of you who have not tried Blog Explosion, try it. It has generated a rather nice amount of traffic for me. DO IT!


Good things.

"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature, and has no chance of being free unless made or kept so by the exertions of better men than
himself. " --John Stuart Mill

For those of you out there who thinks that supporting the trooops means you are supporting a cause you disagree heartily with, read this article.


The two are not mutually exclusive.

We just finished the hour-long stuffing orgy that we like to call our Christmas luncheon. Inbetween bites of foot-long subs, swills of diet coke and mouthfuls of seventeen different deserts, we mumble out Thank-You's for the various gifts while mentally assigning to whom we will regift them to.

Actually, it isn't really THAT bad, but I have now accquired a sizable heap of porcelain snowmen, coffee mugs and bananna nut bread loafs. Their generosity is quite touching, if not a bit fattening.


Anyone hungry?

I thought I would share my first piece of fan mail with my gentle (ok, some of you Not So Gentle) readers.

Here is as follows:

Sarah,
After reading many of your blogs, I am convinced you
have painted with words the portrait of a very sick
individual. Seriously, You are in need of help and
should certainly consider psyche care.

Obviously you have no faith in a higher being,
yourself, or your family. While on one side you are
enamoured with your body, on the other hand you are
disgusted.

Does life have any meaning for you. Let me guess.
Life to you is destroying any happiness others seem to find


He did not sign his name.



I have many thoughts I would have liked to share with this person, but then again, what would be the point.

A friend of mine told me he saw this bumper sticker and thought of me.

If you look at my daughter, first look down the barrel of this shotgun


My reputation is now larger than life.

I would like to proudly announce that this morning I recieved my first piece of fan mail. Ok, so he wasn't such a fan, but, it was purely related to my blog. Interesting.


So now that I have earned the title "a very sick individual" who "needs help and "psyche" care" where do I proceed from here?

For those of you who are color blind and cannot read, I am informing you I changed my template and the name of my blog. Wait, if you can't read, than please reach your fingers towards your braille screens. Because This Is The Most Important Event Since The Birth Of A Four-Legged Chicken. (The one that was featured on the front page of The Daily Times. Yes we live in a sad little town.)


So, here is a toast to malformed creatures that we read about over breakfast.

For those of you who are interested in knowing, my new blog address is http://purewhitemeat.blogspot.com

Think pork, not pink.

Everytime I try this whole business of being a nice person, I have the WORST days ever. It's like clockwork.

For instance, today I wore and all-black outfit and managed to wear NAVY hose. I am also sitting in my corner of the office, nursing a cold and working through a box of tissues like the Kleenex Eating Demon From Hell. The heat is also broked in our office, thus, I am exposed to large drafts of cold air up the skirt. And this, is only the beginning.


I think if I am going to sound pathetic I need to try a little harder.

The end of the year is when you get to look back over the past twelve months and disect every embarassing, stupid and horrid thing you have done. It is also a time to see how much you have grown and changed. This year has definately been an interesting one. I have changed, though I don't know if it is for the better.

Last night, Joy and I had one of those great little sisterly chats where the sister helps you gain perspective on life in general. It also prompted allot of thought on my part, which is normally quite fearsome.

Over the past year, my priorities have become ever so slightly skewed. When she asked me what the purpose of my life is, instead of spitting out some sort of unconvincing canned line, I really thought. What IS the purpose of my life? (Profound, eh?)

The past few months, I have sought to make myself a interesting person. (Aiming high, aren't we?) From what did that goal perpitrate? Because, it is much easier to reach out to people and connect with them when you are multi-faceted. But, you cannot let your priority become BEING INTERESTING because you completely lose focus and push people aside for projects. Thus, nullifying all your wonderful intentions. This might seem quite basic for some of you, but for me this is quite revolutionary.

I have also seen myself morph into this caustic, sarcastic, cynical and biting person. At times, it is nice and conventient, because I will be the first to tell you what I REALLY feel. But, it leaves few people who know that deep down. DEEP DOWN. Ok, THE DARKEST RECESSES. I am truly a nice person. After awhile, the facade blends with who you really are and then YOU BECOME A BITCH. And I am rapidly getting there. Anyway.


I am now taking suggestions on how to make myself a nicer person.

A friend of mine pointed out this very interesting blog. Do yourself a favor, read it and educate yourself.

I know, quite a few of my posts have been consuming how un-Christmas-y I am feeling, but lately, the more I think about it, the worse I feel. There are SO many people who wish they could be home for Christmas with their families and friends, I am here, and I can find nothing to do but complain. How despicable of me.

So, if nothing else, I should merely be grateful that I can be home, since there are those that cannot. So forget all my poisoned Christmas cookies, spiked eggnog and self-mutilating Christmas trees.


Merry Christmas.

I am here, to testify to the fact I am alive. Barely, but I did make it. The excitement was not limited to the wedding, but plenty of drama beforehand. I shall not bore you with the bloody and gorey details, but will suffice you with the interesting details.

Seeing some "straight-laced-good-Baptist's" incredibly, smashingly drunk.

Having the mother of the bride refuse to talk to me and listening to a string of voicmail's she left me, threatening to do everything but set my house on fire.

Having a hour and a half of sleep in fourty-eight hours.

Having to clean out a barn at six in the morning in FLIP-FLOPS while it was twenty degrees.

Watching still-drunk groomsmen stuble down the aisle.


The best part would have to be being able to now say IT IS FINISHED.

I am quite convinced that I have this inner, oppressed desire to kill my computer. Just last week, I managed to knock it over which rendered it senseless until the IT Guy could come and tell me how stupid I am, while dismembering it and finally telling me NOT TO KICK MY COMPUTER OVER. It was just this afternoon I managed to dump a entire glass of water over it. Shh. Don't tell. I neatly mopped it up and will blame it on my boss's rugrat who is running about scribbling on the walls.

The only problem with not having rank, is that you are left to blaming your mistakes on SMALL CHILDREN.

At times life is wicked and I just can't see the light
A silver lining sometimes isn't enough
To make some wrongs seem right
Whatever life brings
I've been through everything
And know I'm on my knees again
But I know I must go on
Although I hurt I must be strong
Because inside I know that many feel this way
Am I hiding in the shadows?
Forget the pain and forget the sorrows
Children don't stop dancing
Believe you can fly
Away...

I love this guy's Christmas spirit and views on stollen.


May you eat it and die.

For those of you who are familiar with my Feed The Boyfriends Campaign it is a initiative to get Sarah to be nice to boyfriends and stop poisoning their food. Part of my exercises have included communicating on a civil level to these creatures.

It has actually prompted interesting conversation and I have discovered that one paticular boyfriend, who was on the verge of dying by, well, something, is actually quite amusing.

Evidenced as follows:

Now may I brag… I have been requested by an area church, to create a music program, and train a worship leader. I have been endeavoring in this goal for some months now. Sound kinda impressive, right? Right…

Now for the rest of the story. So I walk into the church the first day and I meet two people that will forever be etched in my mind, such as a wood-burning tool would carve a scar into the butt of a horse.

Meet Joanne – who asked me what a dark note was...bringing to mind mental images of star wars or some demonic song. THE DARK NOTE.

Then there is Dave, who is otherwise known as Harry. The best of it is that his last name is “Swineheart.” He is the fattest, gentlest, stupidest, self-assumingist guy you will ever meet. He firmly believes that his voice rivals Frank Sonatra’s, and made me sit in his car for a half-an-hour listening to unaccompanied, self-recorded, songs that honestly caused me pain to listen to. He then looked at me with expecting eyes, and there was nothing else I could do but tell him he had potential.

I have a music session every two weeks, and the scum of the church show up, just to see how off they can pitch their notes. But as a good little child, I tell them they are doing wonderful… But, for real, they try, and they come to learn from me, I wouldn’t. I really truly am grateful for the opportunity. That was Pollyanna.


Don't worry, I am not completely letting him off the hook with such a amusing email, he will still be kept under careful watch.


Remember. Sarah. Is. Watching.

Since our boss doesn't actually do anything, he delights in bringing in horridly fattening food and making us eat it as part of our job description. Granted, when he came back from Germany bearing chocolates, I didn't complain, but, today he brought in a HUGE container of Brownie Bites. Think Hostess Cupcake meets Petifour. He then demands that we eat them, like we have nothing better to do but constantly run to the bathroom and vomit.


Thank you very much, I have phones to answer.

Someone just asked me if I was ready for Christmas and then, ASKED ME IF MY KIDS WERE EXCTED ABOUT CHRISTMAS.


There are times when the Christmas spirit encourages murder.

Today does not have a terribly bright outlook. For all my tryings to be bright and cheery (I will be the first to admit it is highly unnatural for me) I cannot for the life of me, think of something to occupy my time for the next seven hours.

As of this morning, I have alread spilled coffee on my desk blotter (more like dumped a oversized cup) inadvertantly offended someone by insulting our very ugly Christmas tree (IT IS COVERED IN POWDER BLUE AND BABY PINK CHRISTMAS BALLS. They shouldn't even make Christmas balls that color, it should be against the law. You would think it is the tree of fertility, but that would be quite pointless since the general population of our office is over fifty. ANYWAY.) and everyone is feeling slightly snubbed because I got flowers. From my Dad. Go figure.

Yes, you will be seeing a general influx of senseless blog posts. I AM BORED STIFF. This could get quite interesting, I am trying to figure out how to single-handedly set the entire office on fire. With a candle.


This could be quite terrifying.

Sometimes, I cannot believe myself. The past few weeks have been incredibly interesting and I have reverted to behavior that is strange and foreign to me. Well, foreign to me, maybe, but prehaps not so strange to those I live with. Thus, my posting has been lacking. And those that I have posted have been dull and boring. I try to avoid posting when I am depressed, because they revert to those annoying I Am Fat And No One Loves Me. Very uncreative.

So, to those who have seen me, spoken with me, emailed me, read my blog or had ANY INTERACTION WHATSOEVER. My deepest apoligies. I have been acting very odd. And, I would have killed myself if I had not been me. Because, I do know, as a fact, I can be the most annoying person. Ever.


Anyone have a extra bullet?

Last night, I went to get my Christmas shopping done in one fell swoop, hoping to jostle myself into the Christmas spirit. Well, my little Grinch soul was not to be budged. I did manage to get everyone's presents bought and wrapped, but I still feel about as cheery as a piece of DEAD HOLLY.


May everyone from Whoville wither up and die.

Someone said I write like this. I was great complimented. (They also said I wrote like Ann Couliter, so they might just be trying to get on my good side.)

Christmas ideas for Joy's platform?


I think Joy is going to shoot me.

Ok, so maybe I am a dumb blonde. But, the keys which I COULD NOT FIND after an hour of searching, were right between the seats of my car.

I SWEAR ON MY GRANDMOTHER'S GRAVE THEY WERE NOT THERE WHEN I LOOKED.

Since someone had to drop me off this morning with my spare key, that left me a good half hour before the office would be open and an hour before I actually had to work.

Just in case you haven't noticed the glum and depressing posts enmasse, that suffice to say as of late, life has been rather stressful and taxing. I was reading the Psalms, and managed, with another blonde miscalculation, to end up reading Psalm 39. And I was reminded, that even if I am TRYING to do great things, if I am doing them without Christ all is in vain. All the stressing, tears, hard work and sacrifice, even with the most good intentions, without Christ it will be in vain.

"LORD, let me know my end, and what is the measure of my days; let me know how fleeting my life is! Behold, thou hast made my days a few handbreadths, and my lifetime is as nothing in thy sight. Surely every man stands as a mere breath! Surely man goes about as a shadow! Surely for nought are they in turmoil; man heaps up, and knows not who will gather

Some are a little slow on the uptake to learn our lessons, but, God loves slow people too.


And now, Lord, for what do I wait? My hope is in thee.

For the title: If you have not seen Princess Bride, or if you do not properly appreciate it, you are most definately missing out. There is something incessently heart warming about crazy medicine men who remind you of a sister WHO YOU HAPPEN TO SHARE A HOUSE WITH. Or would that be, with who you share a house? Anyway. Moving right along.

Am I missing something? I seem to be surrounded with people who find rushing to the alter a sweet and divine salvation from, well, something. Are they running? Or rushing into the arms of comfort? THESE ARE PEOPLE MY AGE! WHAT IS THEIR MAJOR MALFUNCION? Did their mothers neglect to warn them that boys are messy, smelly creatures WITH COOTIES?

Problem being, most of these young people come screaming away from their matrimonial bliss a few shorts months later. Apparently, it isn't so blissful at all. Seems The Marriage Bed has developed a bad case of sand fleas. Maybe because was homeschooled, thus, forced to live many people within confines for the formative years of my life, but the thought of having to LIVE WITH SOMEONE FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE is very grave indeed. Hence the reason my list of friends does not include cats, people whose life calling involves large amounts of canola oil or most of the world in general.

Maybe I am gunshy. But, people, when most of the world is shooting their fingers off, or other necessary body parts, CONSIDER CAREFULLY BEFORE PULLING THE TRIGGER.


Damned trigger happy monkeys.

Progress Report:

Today, someone at work, gave me a compliment and I was able to graciously accept it. Without stuttering, deflection or rabid chewing of fingernails.


Fifty gold stars for me.

I am very worried I will end up looking like a giant satin cream puff. This does not bode well. Does anyone else have a mental image of a cream puff with legs? I think it would be a touch greener and fuzzier, so that leaves me to be a escaped polyester nightmare.


BRING ON THE SYNTHETICS.

When he greets your date at the door with a shotgun. AND FINDS IT FUNNY. AND DOES NOT REALIZE JUST HOW CLOSE HE WAS TO GETTING HIS LITTLE BUTT SET ON FIRE.


There are not words to describe just how close his brush with death was.


Him: being Fredd.

There is one thing to love about my job. That being, I am allowed, if not encouraged, to use red pen. AND USE IT LIBERALLY. My inner control freak rejoices at such a indulgence of power as I cross things out FIRMLY. And write largely, NO.


Things to love in life may be few, but at least I know what they are.

Lately, as I have been taking on more projects, I realize I am being very short with people and rather irritable. Is it because I am stressed, or merely an irritable person?

The reason I take on so many projects is that I am honing myself to be the best I can be. Right now I am building the foundation for the rest of my life, I would prefer to overdo it, rather than looking back and saying "I wish I had done more and worked harder."

Is it necessary to sacrifice me being pleasent and me having a sucessful future? Or was that a huge mental leap that only I got, mainly because there is a enormous disconnect between my brain and my spinal cord?


Anyway. I think this only makes sense to me.

Here is the rest of my life as induced by the behavior of certain members of my family last night.


I think I will make them say thirteen Hail Mary's or damn them to everlasting torment.

Occasionally I click along the Blogger ring, normally to induced into a world of languages I cannot understand or highly annoying blogs, but I actually found a interesting one.


Make sure you check out his Support Scott Peterson post.

America is supposed to be about Democracy, which I am all for, but, I do believe, the hourly wage system is communism. Especially, since your boss refuses to put you on salary, even though it would make sense, since you finish all your work in three hours and spend the next five becoming a solitare ace.

If you think about it, it does not make sense, it encourages you to take as long as possible on any project. Because I happen to finish all my work in half the time, I am forced to sit here in sheer boredom for eight hours a day while everyone else putters about and drinks weak coffee. THIS DOES NOT MAKE ANY SENSE. Unless you work for Maxwell House and have found that this is the only way people are going to drink your coffee.

It is just me, or does this whole system reek of Kindergarten? Share and share alike? Play with everyone? Be nice? PEOPLE! I am not good at these things!

Upon sharing my theories with my grown adults, you would think I had just suggested growing a third arm. It has prompted such reponses such as "Sarah, your just special, not everyone is like you." and "Sarah, your just really smart and need to be challenged." Does anyone else think they are telling me to go ride the short bus?


Damned Natzi's.


Editor's Note: I DID in fact look up the word Communism since I have, as of late, been accused of not knowing what words mean.

I have determined, in my own special sort of way, that I am a terrible person. Mean, biting, cynical and I make snap-judgements. When I am with those I feel supremely comfortable, I find that as license to be terribly sarcastic and critical. It was just this morning that my sister informed "I do not like allot of people."

This is very discouraging, since I have been working very hard on being a nice person. Prehaps all this work of having people want to like me has give way to a I Do Not Care sort of attitude. Helpful at times, but most detrimental at others. This is even more saddening because I thought I was getting very good at this whole, Liking Everyone Attitude, I mean, everyone has annoying habits, but I thought I was beginning to overlook them.

So, this is just a friendly reminder to myself, that I must be nice to others, share my cookies, not rip the heads of others playdough snakes, not snore during naptime and BE NICE TO MY SISTER'S BOYRFRIENDS.


I live a very trying life.

The search of a lifetime has been completed and I have found the perfect shade of red lipstick. Many people were shocked at my shallowness, though I do not know why it is such a suprise by now, and could not believe I was so excited over makeup.

It is the perfect balance between blue and orange, enough blue to make your teeth look white, but enough orange to give you a edge. Even Laura laughed at me. Laura, who inspired my quest for such a thing. A search for the shade of lipstick that will go with everything.


I can now die.

I find this rather interesting. This girl, who actually gave away the her title in a local Miss Delaware pageant the first year Joy competed,singing a rather mediocre version of God Bless America, is releasing a album titled "Blonde Behind the Wheel." She sounds like a young Reba, if you are into that thing you should check out her website. Otherwise, you can sate you knowledge to know that she looks like a blonde version of Ashlee Simpson. With thinner hair. Not necessarily a good thing. She needs a good hairstylist, good makeup artist and a better photographer.


What do they teach them in Nashville?

I find it very disturbing that I recieved an email with several grinchesqe Christmas cartoons and I laughed heartily and found them amusing, but only because I agreed with them. If there was any way to link to them, I would, trust me.


Nothing like realizing Christmas is overrated.

I am normally quite good at this whole Filling Out An Application And Making Yourself Sound Way Better Than You Actually Are. But, it is beginning to wear one me. This application for Iraq is SO long. By the time I am finished, it should be no less than fourty pages. Typed.


I fully expect them to ask if I have ever seen a man with a beard. Minus Santa.

Can someone please help me understand why Victoria's Secret Lovespell lotion smells like grape popsicles? What is love spellish about that? It smells VILE. Like little girls who eat frozen treats and don't bathe.


I smell like a frozen foods section.

Inform me that I call everyone Sweetie. I am so incredibly embarassed. I much prefer to call everyone Sir or Ma'am, but quite a few people get offended. When polling every in the office place, the agree quite heartily. I am mortified. Who calls people Sweetie, but tacky waitresses.


I think I will take to calling everyone Bloody Buggers.

When talking of fat jokes and looking for a way to leave me amusedly dumbfounded, just tell me that "I can tell i am goin to have to drive my truck down to see you insteadof my car, it has a towing package on it, so I can take you out to the
restaraunt."


Take notes people.

At this present moment, I feel like one of those women, who wear far too much makeup and with the daily wear and tear, devlop fissure like cracks in their face. Not because I have excessive makeup on, but I feel sometimes, like my stress-free, happy-person, I Can Do Anything attitudes wears very, very thin. And I can feel the wrinkles forming around my eyes, I can feel the cardiovascular disease creeping on and I can feel the headaches piling on.

There are times, when I feel I Just Can Not Take It Anymore. What Have I Gotten Myself Into. Where Do I Go From Here. Who Has The Vodka And Pills. Are There Any Near-By Bridges.


Who Has The Makeup Remover.

Not only did the Democrats lose Tom Daschle this election, it turn, they got a green Senator as their minority leader, who just so happens to be a pro-gun, pro-life, pro-war, pro-marriage Mormon.


I laugh at their misfortune. Or rather, our fortune.

"I want to thank the Canadian people who came out to wave--with all five fingers--for their hospitality" --President Bush

"For the life of me, I cannot understand why the terrorist have not attacked our food supply, because it is so easy to do." --Tommy Thompson, former Sceretary of Health and Human Services (Nothing like giving them ideas, loudly.)

I know I am not suffering from high blood pressure, because I have extremely low blood pressure, the lowest in our family actually. But, that was not my point.

I am incredibly, not nervous, but that odd shaky feeling you get when you drink too much caffeine, take diet pills or are really excited. I have done none of the above, but for the first time in a very long time, I can't eat. Which is INCREDIBLY odd, if not a FREAK OF NATURE, since our family eats like a bunch of cattipillers. I seriously cannot figure out what is wrong with me. I feel like I need to start twitching violently or something.


I will enjoy it while it lasts.

Does anyone else find Dan Rather incredibly annoying? I find it quite heartening that he will soon be resigning. I find it quite fortunate that I do not have to often watch television, because, in fact, he is quite horrid.


Anyone that looks like a borg and sounds like a voice distortion should not have made a career in public broadcast.

Can someone, who obviously has infinate more knowledge than I, explain WHAT is the point of calling someone, if you simply WATCH TV AND COMMENT ON IT THE ENTIRE TIME. Without sound, nonetheless.

I personally, think that is FAR more rude than talking on your cell phone at someone's house. I think that is right on par with answering your phone at dinner. HOW DAMNED DISGRACEUL! Can you NOT carry on a conversation without the help of your local cable programming?


It brings a whole new meaning to the word vegetable.

Communication, in our family, has NEVER been our strong point. Even though every single solitary member of us have a cell phone, we some how, cannot manage to keep tabs on one another. It might be owning to the fact SOME PEOPLE never turn them on.

Then, there is also the problem of rapent amnesia, you can tell a person fifty-three times where you are going, only to come back home to cries of "No one knew where you were!" or "You should leave a note!" or other such comments. Or, if you DO leave a note, someone throws it away.

So, I have thought up a solution, we need to paint our walls with chalkboard paint. You know, the stuff that turns your walls into a schoolhouse look alike. That way, we can leave giant messages to large for anyone to miss. "HAVE GONE TO THE STORE FOR 2.3 MINUTES, IF I AM NOT BACK IN TIME, SEND A RESCUE PARTY!" (Or call my cell phone. But that would make life far too easy.)

Then, that leaves us with the problem of washing the walls, on occasion. Which would be a tragedy since it is all we can do to wash the dishes.


Or our bodies, for that matter.

Call me incessently during the night, while I cannot turn off my phone, since it has the pesky habit of not liking to turn back on. You think, after I didn't answer for the TENTH time, you MIGHT get a hint.


Do not call me seventeen times unless you would like to be murdered in cold blood.

Today, being Pearl Harbor Day, it gave me pause to think of the correllation between our lives today and the events of over half a century ago. How do you sum up the lives lost so many years ago? How do you put into words the devastating loss of life, loved ones and happiness that so many people experienced some fifty-three years ago?

It wasn't that long ago, but are we forgetting the patriotism that burned so deeply then? The death of more than five thousand people spurned the effort to keep America and it's allies free. All these years later, we are belittling a war which is just as important.

Why are we not supporting the troops? What makes that war any more significant than this one? In hindsight, it is easy to say President Roosevelt did the right thing. Do you think people agreed with him then? The casulaties were far greater, but people believed in the fight for freedom, happiness and the American way. Can we not see that the very same ideals were being threatened, which is why we are at a state of war? Have people considered, that some fifty years down the road, when the loss has lessened ever so slightly and history has looked down favorabley, President Bush will very likely be heralded as a hero who freed many oppressed people.


And where will the nay-sayers be then.

I can feel the very glow of good eating eminating from my very pores. I have eaten healthy for approximently, er, five hours.

You may ask yourself, how can you start eating that early? Very easy when you have to get up at the crack of dawn. My daily menu has included breakfast cereal that tastes like cat food (yes, I know what cat food tastes like) though it was FULL OF FIBER and GOOD FOR MY HEART as the box loudly proclaimed in three inch letters. And salad.


Problem being: I am going to be hungry in three point seven seconds.

As we know, according to previous post's, I have been told I have a great voice for phone sex. Right. Whatever.

Something that greatly amuses me is that people consistently tell me I have a nice voice. The reason I find this hard to believe, is if you get to hear me recorded in any way, shape or form. I seriously sound like I am five years old. And I talk so fast you can barely understand me.


THEY ARE ALL PEDAPHILES.

As Ecclesiastes puts it so beautifully, there is a time for everything, including, bawling your bloody eyes out. (Sarah's paraphrased version.)

So, I advise that everyone take this opportunity to bawl with me. Very cleansing. In a very mucus filled sort of way.


I advise you wear water-proof mascara.

Do people think that yelling in my ear is going to compell me to cut them a paycheck?
Think again.

There is something that rises in me, maybe plain meaness and orneriness, that makes me want to take AS LONG AS POSSIBLE.


Do. Not. Provoke. Me.

Miss Overly Zealous Coworker, who was mentioned a few posts ago (see: Looking Forward...) has just informed that I button my cardigan improperly. Save mismatching the buttons and holes, I did not know it was possible.

Please understand this comes from a woman who wears pleated pants, with tapered legs and they are perpetually one inch too short for her. Please note that she thinks the whole Fluffy-Short-Tapered-Hair is very mod and hip, her idea of changing her hair color is by varying between two shades of blonde, depending on the season. Please digest the fact if I look/dress like her when I am her age, I hope that euthenasia is legalized by then. May All People Who Have Hair Like Hers Be Killed In Mysterious Street Muggings.

My transgression was as follows: I had two, not one, buttons of my twin-set buttoned. And she so nobly informed me that I was to only have ONE button buttoned, AND that Very Special Button ONLY being the MIDDLE button. She carefully undid the offending button for me with her acrylic nail trimmed nimble fingers while I apoligized quickly and lavishly to The Button Buttoning Expert.


May all you Two Button Buttoners go to a deep and watery grave. I think the fires of hell burn paticularly hot for you. And the second button will MELT OFF.

I must admit, that my sisters and I have dated guys that we met on the internet, but, here are a few tips for faring a bit better than we did.

To Avoid Rednecks: Say no immediately, if, on his internet profile he says he regularly hangs out at the Redman Lodge, Lions Club, Kiwanas Club or spends most of his time playing Deer Hunter Video Games. Big Clue.

To Avoid Perverts: Say no immediately, if, when asked what his favorite activity is, he says "sex." Or tells informs you that your ears are sexy. Big Clue.

To Avoid Overly-Sensitive Guys: Say no immediately, if, he says he burst into tears upon gazing at your picture. "Your beauty is truly inspiring." Big Clue.

To Avoid Complete Loser's: Say no immediately, if, he thinks sporadic IMing constitutes a relationship. That breaking up thing is hard to do WHEN THERE IS NOTHING TO BREAK UP. Big Clue.

To Avoid Dieting Demon: Say no immediately, if, he counts his calories more religiously and eats more lettuce than you have ever seen a rabbit consume. The entire date will be spent agonizing over low-calorie menu choices. When he says "Are you SURE you want to get that? It's very calorie laden!" BIG CLUE.


Learn from the mistakes of older and wiser women. And we would just like to give a quick little thanks to Luke I, Luke II, Cody, Derek, Mel, Doug, Eric, Matt and Andrew for making it so easy to hate you.

I think there is nothing more tragic than the occurance of your hair looking better when it is wet, than when it is dry. And you can do nothing in the world to recreate the style dry.


Truly my life is one born into misfortune.

I may just be a dumb blonde, recently referred to as Boobs On Legs, but I do know some pretty sweet cars when I read about them. (I have to have a modicum of intelligence if I can read.) I think this is the ideal family car, get those Gremlins to school quick. Really quick. Of course, the Vanquish brings tears to my eyes. Beautiful.


I think I need to give up being a Flower Whore and shoot for cars.

This afternoon, when my office ordered out for lunch, I had one simple request. Easy. Not At All Hard To Accomplish. Diet Coke. How hard is that? Even non-English speaking people manage to accquire and drink the stuff.

Twenty minutes after I requested the said drink, my office mate comes gently tip-toeing into my office and timidly peeked around the corner.

"Sarah?"

I looked up. SHE HELD A BOTTLE OF Diet Pepsi! "I am so sorry! I swear I ordered Diet Coke! Please don't be upset" she gushed. Rattling nervously about my desk, trying to right this horrific situation.

I sternly glared at her and made it known the only reason I was going to abide with this loathsome behavior was because she is a nice person. Not because Pepsi is good.

Actually, I laughed. I felt rather bad I had made my opinions of Pepsi quite so loudly known.


Lesson: Diet Pepsi tastes like cat pee.

This is Laura, Joy and I are going to be like when we are old, fat and wrinkled.


Okay, so maybe not. PRAY NOT!

I could wax eloquently about my Mum for quite some time. She is quirky, beautiful, creative and a myriad of other things. Above all, she is amazing, beyond the fact she is sixty years old, wears smallers jeans than I, is four inches taller than I and has a inch and a half bigger space between her thighs. (Just for the record: that is wrong in seventeen different ways!)

My Mum is one of the most generous people I know. I spent last night drinking tea and laughing with her, but I was reminded how very generous she is with... everyone. She tries to expand the horizens of everyone around her, she shares with the little tiny things that mean much to her, in hopes of making their day a touch brighter or their life a little more colorful. A cup of tea, a old book, a bit of cheese. Strangers, family, children, whomever. She gladly shares what she has.

I could go on. There are many amazing things about her, all of which I cannot do justice with my pitiful writings. That is what I want to be like when I am sixty.


Minus the brightly colored hair.

Oh how much I would give for a cup of hot steaming tea, in a real mug. My first born child to be precise, I think it is a practical offering since things get better with practice, it's better to sell off the first few kids and keep the best for yourself later.

I sit here, dabbling a stale tea bag in a styrofoam cup filled with tepid water. Listening to the wind howling about outside, crouched before my almighty computer frozen fingers bravely pecking out my thoughts.

Oh for a spot of Earl Grey and a packet of Pimms!

Someone commented to recently "I think that your sarcasm is a mask for the pain." I was not quite sure what they meant by THE pain, but I did freely admit, often humor mask's a world of hurt.

It got me to thinking, what is so terrible about concealing your pain? Should we let it all be aired for the world to see? What good would that do? I am not suggesting that we as people deny the fact that we hurt, but is their any helpful purpose in walking around with a sign on one's head that says I HURT?

I am, for once, being quite serious. Is it not more profitable to make light of that which causes us injury to help and see it from another perspective? I do not seek to ridicule myself or others, my find life quite a bit more bearable when you soak up the absurdity of it all.

Is this right? Does this make sense?

There are a few people who have delighted in ruffling through old blog posts and leaving rather interesting comments, paticularly those pertaining to Jared. If you enjoy it, so be it, have at it! I want to reiterate one thing; as I have said before, to my knowledge Jared and I are now friends.

Some of the things I wrote were very unkind, untrue and generally horrible. The only reason I keep those entries still on my blog, though I have been sorely tempted to delete them, is to keep myself humble. I think there is something very important about keeping a record of your journey of life.

You, as a blog reader, have obviously had the opporunity to read it, weigh it and decide for yourself. If you must read old blog post's, please remember that just because I said it however long ago, does not mean that I still hold on to that paticular sentiment.

It's a Woman's Right. To change her mind when she so decides. Long live Women's Liberation!